The Dating Game
by knullabulla
Summary: A visit from the Duke inspires Lady Mary to help Thomas sort out his love life
1. We All Have Our Crosses to Bear

He took in the news passively yet curiously, as one does when tragedy strikes those with whom one holds only a passing acquaintance. " **TITANIC SINKS** ," screamed the front page of the London Herald, " **Great loss of life**." It really was a pity, thought Philip, as he sipped his tea. There were bound to be important members of the peerage aboard the ship upon her maiden voyage, and Lord only knew what sorts of headaches that would cause for anyone unlucky enough to have an heir or two left clinging to the side of an iceberg. Not to mention the poor sods below deck; although, Philip supposed—

The click of the library door opening interrupted his thoughts. "Thank you, Bradford," said Mother as she barely gave the aged butler a second glance, "Mr. Asquith will be joining us for dinner this evening. See to it that Mrs. Fitzgerald has an appropriate menu prepared."

"Very good, your grace," replied Bradford, bowing deeply as he backed out of the room. "I shall see to it at once, your grace."

Philip couldn't help smirking at the butler's subservience. It was certainly quite the contrast from—

"Wipe that foolish grin off of your face at once," snapped Mother. She was pacing the room, a small slip of paper clutched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were turning white. "You told me that you were going to end this nonsense. You _swore_ to me that you were going to put your family, your _duty_ first," she seethed as she brandished the paper like a weapon, "And yet, here I see that you never had any intention to end your depravity."

Philip felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. "Mother, I can— I can explain," he could just barely stammer out.

"Thank God, your father isn't alive to see what you've become." It wasn't the first time she had said something of that nature to him, but it stung nevertheless.

"Yes, Mother."

"Your little queer wants you to pay him a visit," she sneered.

Philip swallowed against the bitter taste of bile building at the back of his throat. Although deep down, he knew that there was no future to be had with Thomas—even if their genders were not a factor, their differences in class certainly were—he was still rather fond of the man, if for no other reason than that the footman's acerbic humor made him laugh. "I know what my duty is Mother," he said as he strode towards the woman who supposedly nurtured him for nine months in her womb. Snatching the telegram from her hand, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the fire where it flared for a moment before turning to ash.

"I _warned_ you that if this nonsense continued, I would see that pervert put behind bars where he belongs," she threatened, her voice as cold as the fire was hot.

"I have no intentions of seeing him again, Mother," Philip gritted between his clenched teeth.

Mother was pacing again the room again. "Oh, no. You'll see him again. You'll see him, and you'll make certain that he _never_ comes near our family's happiness ever again."

Happiness? Is that what she called it? "Yes, Mother."

"I imagine you were stupid enough to send him letters? You will go to Downton and you find _anything_ that he could possibly use against our family. And you will _burn_ it all. You will burn it all just the same as those _disgusting_ letters he sent you."

 _My dearest, how I miss the warmth of your body and the gentleness of your caress._

"Yes, Mother," he mumbled to her back as she moved to exit from the room, for as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

 _How I miss our evenings at Lyons Corner House— and, of course, all that came after._

"Oh, it would seem that Mary Crawley finds herself without a suitor," Mother said as almost an after thought, "it's still a bit unclear whether or not she's eligible to inherit, but it'll be a sizable fortune if she does. See to it once you've gotten rid of that despicable creature."

"Yes, Mother."

 _My only wish is to spend the rest of my days with you and you alone._

Perhaps a marriage to Lady Mary Crawley would be tolerable enough. As far as Philip could tell, she was a handsome enough woman—so at least the children wouldn't need to be hidden away lest they offend someone's eyes. Besides, Philip found it highly doubtful that his parents _ever_ held any love for one another. Romantic notions of _love_ had no place within the aristocracy. "I know what my duty is," he whispered to himself.

 _Until we meet again. All my love, T. B._


	2. Six Degrees of Anderson Cooper

"I must say that I'm truly impressed with the work you and Tom have put into diversifying your landholdings," enthused Charles Blake as he made himself comfortable on the red velvet sofa.

Lady Mary Talbot bore a smile like the cat who not only ate the canary, but made the canary thank her for the privilege of being devoured. "Well, I seem to recall a certain gentleman coming to the rescue when our entire pig investment was in danger of being wiped out, so I consider this to be _our_ success," she demurred politely.

Offering a devilish grin and a waggle of his eyebrows, Charles suggested, "I guess you could say I saved your bacon?" He received a trademark roll of Mary's eyes in response. "Well, I think I'm hilarious," he chuckled to himself as he lifted his teacup to indicate that he was in need of a refill. "Thank you, Barrow."

Barrow bowed slightly at the waist and gave a softly murmured, "sir" in reply.

Lady Mary looked up and offered her butler a warm smile. "Yes, thank you, Barrow. How are preparations coming along for our visitors?" she inquired even though she was quite confident that Thomas had the situation well in hand.

"The day maids finished airing out the guest bedrooms this morning and Mrs. Patmore has—if the smells coming from the kitchen are any indication—a truly fine meal planned for this evening," Barrow explained as he kept his face utterly inscrutable, his posture impossibly erect, and his chest seemingly puffed out with pride. It was only the slight tremor in his voice that gave him away.

Three months after offering the role of butler to him, Mary knew Thomas's mannerisms well enough to recognize that this outward show of confidence belied the man's anxiety that he would be found wanting by Upstairs and Downstairs alike. "Wonderful!" exclaimed Lady Mary warmly as she turned back to Charles to continue their conversation. "Now, please remind me Charles. Who will be joining us for the weekend?" she inquired as much for her own benefit as for Barrow's, who would undoubtedly have his hands full coordinating an influx of guests as well as servants.

Pulling a small notebook out of an inside pocket of his charcoal grey suit jacket, Charles reviewed his notes, "Let's see. Lord and Lady Shrewsbury will be coming in from Lancashire—they're wishing to know more about investing in both agriculture and livestock. And Sir Martin Wallace will be heading up from, uh, Cotswold. He's been trying to decide whether or not to sell off his property in Bristol. Oh, but I'm afraid Tony—" Mary stiffened imperceptibly at the name "—had to send his regrets."

"Oh?" asked Mary as she endeavored to keep her face as neutral as possible.

Charles shrugged, "I suppose he thinks things might be awkward between you and Mabel what with him trying to court you."

"Yes, I suppose that might be the case." She offered Charles a breezy smile, which rapidly changed into a grimace only barely concealed behind the teacup that she quickly brought to her lips for camouflage.

"At any rate," continued Charles, "Tony suggested that we extend an invitation to the, ah, Duke of Crowbor— Barrow, are you quite alright?" The sound of china rattling just behind his left shoulder interrupted him mid-sentence.

"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir," replied Barrow, his face blank and unreadable.

While Charles' back was turned to look over his shoulder, Mary cast upon Thomas her own quizzical gaze. But once Charles had straightened around again, she immediately smiled and explained, "I'm afraid Barrow is being a bit overprotective of me, Charles. Years ago, the Duke came for a visit with the intention of courting— Well, let's just say it wasn't _me_ he was interested in courting."

Charles had a knowing smile upon his face, for the Duke's fortune hunting had become notorious in several circles. "Ah, did he find your bank account to be less attractive once it was clear the entail couldn't be broken?" he asked. "Well, apparently, he and Tony play polo together and have been discussing finances as of late. But, if you would prefer that he didn't come…"

"Oh no, I wouldn't dream of it," Mary said with a laugh. "It was _years_ ago; goodness, I've been twice married and have my second child on the way. Believe me, I have not been spending the past fourteen years pining away for the Duke."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it."

"Besides," Mary continued as her eyes flickered over to Barrow, "last I heard, he was married to one of the Vanderbilts and was quite busy producing a small army of little Vanderbilts."

Charles' face broke out in a grin, "Yes, I hear that number four is currently baking."

Glancing furtively at Barrow—who despite standing as straight and tall as ever, seemed at the same time to be almost wilting—Mary queried, "Should we have Dr. Clarkson on call just in case?"

Shaking his head, Charles explained, "No, I don't believe she's quite that far gone. Besides, Tony tells me that the Duke will likely leave her at home. Apparently, she's not very fond of traveling outside of metropolitan London. According to Tony, the two of them almost never travel together."

"Ah, not one for the country, is she?" asked Mary with an arched eyebrow. She sniffed slightly with indignation towards this woman whom she had never met. Typical Londoner snobbery, she thought to herself. The city might have its diversions, but Mary would always love the bucolic beauty of the Yorkshire countryside. She groaned slightly as the baby shifted inside of her, pushing a tiny fist—or was it a foot?—into her kidney and another tiny foot—or was it a fist?—into her bladder.

"Everything alright?" inquired Charles, who looked slightly worried that Mary would start birthing right there on the couch. He once aided with the birthing of a litter of piglets but somehow doubted that Mary would appreciate the comparison.

Offering a weary smile, Mary waved off his concern as she awkwardly stood up, "Yes, quite alright. But I'm afraid that she's had quite enough with meetings for today."

Standing as well, as etiquette dictated, Charles teased, "Oh, is it a she? I was under the impression that these things tended to be a bit of a surprise."

Her smile now turning quite smug, Mary demurred, "My children are quite well behaved, Mr. Blake. I told this one that she ought to be a girl, and I'm quite confident that she'll do just as she is told. And if not…"

"Well, I suppose you'll have to forbid him from going to the pub with his friends for _at least_ the first year," joked Charles. "Was there anything else you would like to know?"

Mary laughed as she clasped her hands over her belly. "No, I believe we have everything we need. Don't we, Barrow? Barrow?"

Seeming to shake himself out of a dream, Thomas replied, "Yes, m'lady. Everything that we need."


	3. Horse Feathers

"Excellent back shot, Duke!" shouted Tony Gillingham over the din of horse hooves hitting the soft blades of Kentucky Bluegrass at a frenetic pace. The game was incredibly tight with the competing clubs vying for the winning goal; and with each chukker, the winning score had seemingly volleyed from one side to the other. As the ball whizzed past his pony's nearside, Tony checked and turned just in time to swing his mallet along the offside. With a resounding CRACK, mallet head and ball connected, and the round projectile flew with perfect precision to the team's number four player. "Attaboy, Stanley! You can do it!" hollered Tony at the top of his lungs.

Just as Stanley was about to earn that "attaboy," a defender from the opposing team veered towards him, bumping the nearside of his pony and sending the ball into the sideboards. "Bloody hell," the man swore as he raised his mallet in the air, appealing to the umpire,"You lads are worse than dealing with Parliament!"

"The play's a clean one, Mr. Prime Minister," shouted the umpire just before blowing his whistle to signal the end of the sixth and final chukker. "Final score: Wakefield 5 Leeds 4," he called out.

"I guess the pints will be on us tonight, eh Tony?" Phillip called out as he trotted his pony towards a waiting groomsman. Swinging his leg over the pony's hind quarters, he smoothly dismounted and headed towards the refreshments table for a much needed glass of punch.

* * *

And now it was three weeks later, and Phillip found himself on a train headed for Downton Abbey of all places.

It had seemed like a perfectly logical decision at the time. Phillip needed ideas for how he might stop hemorrhaging his wife's money; Lady Mary Craw— no, wait, it was… Tablet? Tableau? Tab-something at any rate—had apparently figured out a way to _increase_ her family's wealth. Paying a visit after so many years surely wouldn't lead to any awkwardness. Really, Phillip thought to himself wryly, they'd probably forgotten all about his visit over the course of the intervening years.

And yet, his stomach twisted with what he alternately imagined to be apprehension followed swiftly by anticipation. He didn't dare put the feeling into words, not even in the privacy of his own mind, but even as he tried to deny it to himself, he knew exactly for what he both dreaded and hoped.

For _whom_ he both dreaded and hoped.

And just like that, a little seed planted itself in his mind and shot down roots to drink up his memories until it blossomed into a name. "Thomas," he whispered to himself.

"Did you say something, your grace?" asked Bradford, who hitherto had been snoring quite loudly with his chin tucked against his chest. But now, the old goat was alert and eager as ever to serve as a metaphorical—and Phillip supposed quite possibly _literal_ —footstool for the aristocracy.

"No, Bradford. Just talking to myself," Phillip muttered as he gazed out the private compartment's window.

"What's that? You'd like a toffee for yourself?"

"What? No! I said I was _talk_ —"

The elderly butler staggered to his feet, "I'll go see if the girl in the dining car has any toffees."

Thumping the back of his head against the headrest of his seat in frustration, Phillip groused, "Bradford! I don't need any bloody— Actually, never mind. I do need a toffee. Why not? Off you go."

"Very good, your grace," replied Bradford as he shuffled out the compartment.

Finding himself alone with just his thoughts for company, Phillip tried to picture Thomas in his mind's eye. It was a real shame that he never had any photographs taken of the man, for Phillip was quite certain that some of the details had become clouded by the passage of time. He supposed it was primarily nostalgia that formed an image of a beautiful man with high, sharp cheek bones and a secretive smile. As memories of pale skin and a firm body fashioned from hard work ghosted under his fingertips, the picture became clearer and clearer. And his trousers seemed to be getting tighter and tighter.

Of course, it was ridiculous to think that Thomas would still look the same. For all he knew, the man had gained a stone per year and was now the size of a pygmy hippopotamus. Phillip chuckled to himself. It would serve the blackmailing little shit right, wouldn't it? He was always so vain about his looks—hogging the mirror to comb pomade through his hair before sneaking back to work before anyone noticed he was missing—it really would serve him right if he were to grow fat. Fat and bald, now that Phillip thought about it.

Of course, it was equally ridiculous to think that Thomas would even still be working at Downton. A man with Thomas's ambitions would never be happy living a lifetime in service. Phillip was certain of it. And it was that certainty that had allowed him to carry out Mother's demands so many years ago. Really, what sort of life would that have been for either of them? _"Darling, when you're done sucking my cock, I'll need you to shine my shoes and serve dinner to my guests. Now, off you go to sleep in the attic!"_ The more he thought about it, the more Phillip concluded that burning the letters had been a truly magnanimous decision.

And of course, it was absolutely ludicrous to even _think_ that Thomas would still be harboring any feelings for him. After all, did _Phillip_ spend day and night thinking back upon the summer of 1911? Even if he did, on the _rare_ occasion, find himself drifting down memory lane and daydreaming about running his fingers through ebony locks of hair, it was only to relieve the stress created by a life of responsibility and duty.

There was _nothing_ between himself and Thomas Barrow. And, just as the compartment door swung open with Bradford declaring that he had acquired a toffee apple for his grace, he concluded to himself that Thomas Barrow surely felt the same.


End file.
